A Man Against the Moon

Is it Luna makes me looney? O moon,so fulsome with sticky glitters,is it you making me cry in this bitter wind,aching hollows up the nose, behindmy eyes? Old as I am, I recollectasking in priapic years your minion stars,that you in your same-old smug silenceout-shone to nothing, why my lotwas to be pimply-sad in love. Is vortexprattle come back again, but polarand double now, just wild west windredux old poets O-ed about in odes?Surely not the vortex of the vorticist poetat whose feet we squatted like kidson kindergarten rugs, noddingin solemn pretense of deep sagacityas if each muttered fragmentmade a perfect engine concentrating energyat the still center of a raging funnel,etcetera. Oh, it’s always been you, moon--you still mover of oceans that do blowthe winds, tugger of hot young heartsand chiller of hoary white heads.I’m sure it’s you, hiding in a white blazeat the dead center of the black sky,who makes me weep all the way homeagainst a wind so frozen fierceit rebukes my brain like regrets swollento the fore and hardened to cement.​